


like the monster loves a flower

by Byacolate



Series: the clock knows the hour [1]
Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Greek Mythology, Domestic Fluff, Fluff, M/M, Marshmallow Adaar, Oneshot, and Dorian waltzed his way into the Underworld without so much as a by-your-leave, in which Adaar is a doting and benevolent king, of the ancient married god variety, or That Hades and Persephone AU
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-27
Updated: 2015-02-27
Packaged: 2018-03-15 11:57:55
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,367
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3446330
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Byacolate/pseuds/Byacolate
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Pomegranates have always grown from the hard stone of the Underworld, fat and red and round with sin, and there is careful deliberation in the way Dorian cups one heavy fruit on its branch.</p>
            </blockquote>





	like the monster loves a flower

**Author's Note:**

> The spectacularly gorgeous accompanying artwork is a blessing bestowed upon the universe by [robbicide](http://robbicide.tumblr.com/), who deserves every follow and gushing compliment in the world.
> 
> [Here](http://robbicide.tumblr.com/post/112222557062/me-and-the-amazingly-sweet-and-talented-byacolate/) is a direct link to the marvelous art itself. Sigh at it for a bit.

 

“I should return, shouldn’t I?”

 

Dorian traces ancient, twisted branches with the tips of his fingers, and at his touch new life springs forth. Bright green buds unfurl and reach for his hand where the limb has lain bare for a thousand years. "To the surface."

 

He should. Adaar had said as much, once, at the lip of the Underworld where the Styx meets the sky - where Dorian had basked greedily in the sunlight. The bright rays were a balm of heat upon his skin, toes dug into soft warm earth. But even with his face upturned to reap Apollo's bounty, Dorian had laughed the notion down into dust.

 

He is not laughing now. The wry tilt to his lips speaks only of thinly veiled displeasure.

 

“Why don’t I go with you,” Adaar speaks before he thinks, and that earns him a smile that is faint, but genuine.

 

“Take you away from all this?” Dorian lifts his gaze to the high ceiling, dark and cold, veined with gold and creeping with ivy that only comes to be when Dorian lights upon a chamber. It was not there before, and it will be gone again soon enough. The life pursued him deep within the dark and listless kingdom; so it shall follow when he leaves. “I can’t ask that of you.”

 

Pomegranates have always grown from the hard stone here, fat and red and round with sin, and there is careful deliberation in the way Dorian cups one bulbous fruit on its branch.

 

Adaar risks the tangle of leaves and twigs in his horns to step forward, delicately grasping Dorian’s wrist. His skin is warm and dark, even here, but this is not where he belongs, and it is not where he thrives. Not where the sun cannot reach him, or the growing things that spring forth from every footfall.

 

“You don’t have to ask," he murmurs and lifts his free hand to cradle Dorian's jaw, wonders where all rational thought has fled and how he is to find it within these cavernous rooms. "I’m offering.”

 

Dorian leans into the touch and his silence allows them both a moment to ignore that it isn't something that can be offered, however well they know it.

 

“Trust me, amatus,” he says quietly into the palm of Adaar’s hand, “it would give me no pleasure to leave your side.” But the seasons come and go and the earth lies barren without him. It does not need to be said, so Dorian does not say it. Perhaps his careful silence is meant to assuage Adaar of any guilt he might harbor for allowing Dorian’s advances and drawing him into the earth, away from his crops and gardens and green, open valleys. His mother weeps and curses Adaar at the mouth of the Underworld, demanding Dorian’s return and leaving the land to rot in her absence, while here he stands with the gem of the earth cradled in the palm of his hand.

 

Dorian isn’t looking at him, though; his eyes are ever drawn to the ripe red fruit upon the tree. Adaar knows temptation when he sees it and kisses Dorian’s eyelids to draw his attention away.

 

It isn’t fair to the soil, to the sky, to Dorian himself to keep him swallowed up in the dark for all of time.

 

“I know what you’re doing,” Dorian tuts.

 

“And I, you.”

 

“I wasn’t doing anything. I was merely considering.”

 

“Considering.”

 

“And here you've laid to rest my fears that your ears had stopped working. Always so very thoughtful.”

 

Adaar kisses Dorian’s brow with only the thought that in no time at all, he may lose the opportunity for such idle affection for a great many eons to come. “Will you share these considerations with me?”

 

“As though I am not always considerate with you. But no.” Finally, the pomegranate is free of Dorian’s grip. He rests his hand upon Adaar’s chest instead. “Not this time, I think. For now I’d like to keep my consideration to myself.”

 

“As you wish,” Adaar allows. He is hardly a fool; he knows Dorian will do as he pleases, in his own time. But he likes to think not every action will be made with haste, that some may be kept for slow and careful consideration. Surely it is a good omen that Dorian has left it to rest at all.

 

He can almost hear Demeter’s wailing even as Dorian draws him further into the arching hall toward the chamber where Adaar's consort keeps him.

 

☙❧

 

He wakes swathed in silk to a gentle snap and a thick, soft tear somewhere behind him. There is no warm body pressed tight to fit his spine or snoring in the space between his arm and chest, so with a great sigh Adaar rolls onto his back. He stretches his legs until the bones in his toes creak and pop, and when he opens his eyes it takes a moment to register the sight before him.

 

But there sits Dorian, one leg draped over the side of the bed, the other folded so that its toes tuck under the opposite thigh, regarding Adaar without a trace of guile. And then there is the pomegranate resting in his right hand, pulled apart and missing a conspicuous handful of jewels. When Dorian leans down to kiss the objection from him, his mouth is sweet.

 

“It was my decision to make,” Dorian says before Adaar can protest. “So I made it.”

 

“You will despair,” Adaar tries, his voice sleep-cracked and somber, but Dorian pats his chest as though it were a trifle.

 

“Don’t be so dramatic. I won’t eat it all. Mother might tear the Mount down from the heavens, and then you would have no peace.” He smiles with all the surety of youth, tracing the tip of one pointed ear. “I will return to the surface as I must, but now… now they cannot keep me from you. Try not to look so upset about it.”

 

The pomegranate falls to the floor forgotten when Adaar rolls Dorian to the bed beneath him, tucking his face into the long, warm arch of his neck with apologetic fervor.

 

 _Now_ , Dorian laughs.

 

☙❧

 

He sends him off at the yawning of the earth covered head to toe in gold and kisses. Demeter’s wrath festers in the soil beneath Adaar’s feet, but if Dorian feels it, he pays it no mind. He pulls Adaar from the cavernous dark into the sun. It is a testament to his very nature, the way he glows from the inside out deep within the bowels of the world the selfsame way he shines in the light of day. It is said that Apollo himself once laid his love at the feet of Demeter’s child, and Ares, and Hermes, and Hephaistos. Yet here he stands on the tips of his toes to bid Adaar farewell where they all may see.

 

“It won't be so long,” Dorian says as he steps back, and the earth grows green in light of his presence alone. Flowers would burst forth and grow to hold him there, keep him for themselves if he did not move ceaselessly. “Tend a few crops, caress a few trees, collect my offerings long overdue, and I’ll be back before you’ve even noticed I’m gone.”

 

Adaar touches his cheek only briefly lest he begin to cling and steps back toward the shadows, one hand to the cave’s gaping maw. “Fare you well, Dorian.”

 

“Oh, if I must.”

 

His eyes are unsmiling as he turns to go.

 

Adaar stands as still as death to watch Dorian wander off to slowly disappear within the thickest of the grove. It is only once he moves to return to the Underworld that he realizes he cannot pull away, for where his hand rests, half in sunlight, it has been trapped beneath a prison of ivy. Without his notice, between his third and fourth knuckle a flower had bloomed, soft and white and keenly familiar in scent.

 

He delicately removes his hand from the ivy that hangs limply when he leaves - but the blossom, pure as snow, returns with him into the depths of the earth.

 

**Author's Note:**

> Inquire about fic requests [here!](http://wardencommando.tumblr.com/ask)  
> Title from “Up in the Rafters” by Lady Lamb the Beekeeper: _I want to love you like the monster loves a flower / disarming as a bird flying backwards / and my heart is a pomegranate / and how long have I ached for your hands on my stomach? / I want to love you like the monster loves the flower / Tenderly_
> 
> If you are so inclined, feel free to follow [my Tumblr](http://wardencommando.tumblr.com/).


End file.
